Holding Their Own: The Toymaker

by Joe Nobody

  Within a few seconds, veins were protruding from both men’s foreheads. The bar room was filled with shouts of support.

  Bishop had to hand it to the stranger; the man had strength, technique, and grit. Butter, somewhat surprised that his foe had withstood his initial onslaught, was starting to look a little worried.

  And then, with a growl and grunt from the straining newcomer, Butter’s arm started losing ground. “Come on, Butter, quit playing with him,” Terri shouted, going up on her tiptoes with excitement.

  Sensing weakness, the stranger again let out a roar and moved Butter another inch toward defeat.

  But the local favorite wasn’t about to give up.

  Sucking in a huge breath, Butter turned beet red as his face wrinkled with the strain. Slowly, his arm moved back to the starting position, and then bit by bit, he started taking the stranger down.

  With what sounded like a howl of pure pain, the stranger fought off the assault, fighting his way back upright. The crowd noise doubled with both support and disappointment.

  Back and forth the ball of trembling fist-flesh moved, neither man seeming to be able to finish off the other. “Come on, Butter! Hunter needs a new pair of shoes!” Terri yelled.

  Again the big, blonde Texan made a go at his foe, Butter’s eyes squinting shut as he groaned from deep within.

  A loud crash sounded as the stranger’s arm finally gave out, slamming into the table with enough force that Bishop thought the heavy wooden surface might actually split.

  The crowd erupted in cheering, several people approaching both men to issue their congratulations and offer drinks.

  “We won!” Terri shouted over the din, turning to hug Bishop and celebrate the triumph. He had to smile at his wife’s reaction, so caught up in the victory that she almost forgot to collect her winnings.

  The Texan watched as Butter and his opponent exchanged handshakes, both of them going on about how challenging the match had been, each man bragging about the other’s strength.

  At least he’s a good loser, Bishop thought, watching the stranger congratulate the winner with a sincere smile and pat on the back. I wonder if I would show as much sportsmanship.

  While he waited for Pete to pay out the winners, Bishop experienced a bout of introspection. I’ve been getting my ass kicked out at the ranch, just like that guy, he realized. And I’m definitely a sore loser. But is it the same?

  Terri bounced over, flashing her winnings and then making a show of securing the money in her bra.

  “Can I at least have my original five back?” Bishop asked, almost knowing what the response would be.

  “Maybe,” she grinned. “I might let you go hunting for it later.”

  A short time passed before Bishop leaned close and said, “I’m ready to go anytime you are.”

  A pained expression crossed Terri’s face, “Why? The babysitter is just fine until midnight. Hunter was out. He’s had a busy day.”

  “I don’t know. I’m just not in the partying mood. So much has changed around here. I just can’t seem to get comfortable.”

  Terri’s brow indicated she was thinking hard, and then her frown disappeared with an idea. “It is a little smoky in here, but I don’t want to go back to the room just yet. How about we take a walk?”

  Bishop perked up immediately, “That’s a great idea!”

  He retrieved his rifle from behind the bar, noting a few of the patrons glance his way with odd expressions. Has Meraton gone anti-gun? he pondered. Or am I just being overly sensitive?

  Terri, of course, had to make the rounds and say her goodbyes. Wanting to get away from what suddenly seemed like a room full of disapproving eyes, Bishop whispered, “I’ll wait outside,” in his wife’s ear.

  He shook Pete and Butter’s hands, promising to see them both again before leaving town.

  Wanting to comply with Meraton’s new-found sensitivity concerning firearms, Bishop slung the carbine upside down across his back, a universal sign of peaceful intent. It seemed silly.

  A few deep breaths of the fresh evening air helped Bishop. While he thought of Pete as a brother, the bar had seemed stuffy and close. You’re becoming an anti-social recluse, he thought. You need to get out more. You’ve been in Pete’s a dozen times when it was that crowded, and it never bothered you before.

  And then Terri was beside him, reaching for his hand and pointing back toward the Manor. “Let’s tour the gardens first. It’s my favorite place on earth.”

  Bishop had to agree.

  They strolled slowly, holding hands like high school lovers, Terri resting her head on his shoulder. Despite his best intent to salvage their date, Bishop couldn’t help but tell his wife about the encounter with the deputies.

  When he’d finished, Terri stopped and faced her husband. Looking up with an adoring expression, she said, “You’ve had a bad couple of days, young man. Now, what could a girl do to make life better again?”

  “Do you really think that’s all there is to it?” he asked. “Do you really think I’m just hitting a low spell?”

  “What else could it be? You’re not getting feverish, are you?” she teased, playfully feeling his forehead. “Unless you’re sick, or tired of me, there’s nothing else it could be. Starting a new business like the ranch is an ambitious undertaking, even before humanity hit bottom.”

  “Tired of you? Now that’s just silly. Hunter and you are the only things that make me feel better. Now stop being a goose.”

  She chuckled and then became serious again. “What do you think it is?”

  Bishop wasn’t ready to answer that, not just yet. With an arm around her shoulder, he resumed walking, thinking through his response. After another half block, he said, “When I worked at the gun store, I remember talking to a guy who called himself a prepper. He stored food, ammo, and all kinds of supplies, preparing for the apocalypse. He was convinced there would be an EMP attack, or a super-volcano, or asteroid strike, and then society would come to a screeching halt.”

  “Yeah, I remember there were television shows about people who thought that way. What did they call their movement… self-reliance?”

  Bishop nodded, “Something like that. I think there were all kinds of names and labels. Anyway, I’ve often thought about that man since his beliefs became reality. I’ve wondered how he fared, and if his preparations had been enough. I don’t even remember his name, but the encounter stuck with me.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, one of the things I recall thinking at the time was that he actually seemed to be okay with the thought of society failing. He didn’t come right out and say it, but his choice of words and attitude sure led me to believe he’d actually be just fine if it all went to hell. This guy wasn’t some nut job or radical, as I recall. He came across as an ordinary enough gent… just an average Joe who was comfortable with doomsday being scheduled for next Monday.”

  “Really? That’s almost kind of scary. Why would anyone want all of the hunger and violence and uncertainty? How many times did we almost die? How many millions perished? The amount of suffering we’ve witnessed is enough nightmare material to last a lifetime.”

  “No. No, it wasn’t that he wanted all that. He wasn’t a masochist or sadist. It was more like he looked forward to a simpler lifestyle… like he felt the world had gotten entirely too complex, and that the hassle of not having modern conveniences would be offset by a less complicated existence.”

  “Still seems weird to me. Humans are pre-wired to advance, progress, explore, and invent. It’s in our DNA to try and make things better. If everybody thought like your friend, we’d still be living in caves. That was a pretty simple existence… and a shorter lifespan, too.”

  Bishop nodded as if he understood his wife’s reply, but then he stopped and faced her. “Those are all fair questions asked from a reasonable perspective. But here’s the real scary part – now, today, I understand his attitude. I get where he was coming from.”

  “Wha
t? What the hell are you talking about, Bishop? Now you’re scaring me.”

  Shaking his head, the Texan looked down at the pavement. “I know it sounds bad… completely illogical. But I can’t help it. Before the recovery, when it was every man for himself, I felt like I had more control over our destiny. The only rules I had to follow were based on my own humanity. The only regulations I had to be concerned with came from the barrel of a gun.”

  Terri’s face made it clear she wasn’t following, so Bishop continued. “Did you ever think about the lure of the Old West? Why there was such a romantic draw surrounding all of those cowboy books and movies?”

  She pondered the questions for a moment and then nodded. “I suppose. Free range, unrestricted travel. No mortgages or taxes or authority looking over your shoulder. Opportunity. Self-reliance. I get it, but it’s a tainted image created by Hollywood producers and authors. They didn’t dwell on the loneliness or lack of purpose. Those old horse opera movies didn’t point out that a small cut becoming infected could kill a man in a matter of days, or that drinking bad water could cause a fate worse than death.”

  “Yes, you’re absolutely correct. But the people back in those days knew all about the risks, and they still pushed west. Many of them could have left at any time and gone back east. But few did.”

  “That’s all fine and dandy for the strapping young man like you, a guy who’s good with a gun and has the reflexes of a cat. But what about the older folks? What about the widows and young children? Think about Hunter’s future in the world you describe.”

  Bishop frowned, “I know. You’re right. My brain keeps telling me I’m being stupid and short-sighted. But my gut doesn’t like being interrogated by policemen in Meraton or being told I have to keep a piece of paper on my person at all times. I’ve gotten accustomed to unrestricted freedom, and going back to the way things were is extremely hard for me to digest.”

  “Why? It doesn’t seem like such a big deal to me,” she responded. “Having to carry identification seems like a reasonable trade for not having to watch your back every moment of every day. Answering some nosey cop’s questions sure beats having a shootout every ten minutes on Main Street. There are trade-offs for progress, my love. Always has been, always will be.”

  “I suppose, but you have to admit that over-regulation and dependence played a substantial role in the downfall. I know there was a combination of facilitators that landed us where we are. But if every citizen had been like that guy from the gun store, would we have fallen so quickly and landed so hard?”

  “Oh, believe me, I understand where you’re coming from. When I was on the council, it seemed like we faced this issue every single day. But… we’re social animals, my love. We need interaction with others of our kind. Even the pioneers depicted in your romantic movies had goals… destinations… better places they were trying to reach. It’s only human nature. Complete anarchy doesn’t work. The physically strong will always prey on the weak. Doesn’t the man with the slightly slower gun deserve the right to live as much as the quickest draw? Maybe he’s a physician and is more interested in healing than fighting. Don’t we need his kind to make it all work? Should he be subservient to a lesser intellect just because of physical strength or slower reflexes? Which of our two fictional characters, the doctor or the gunfighter, is going to improve everyone’s quality of life?”

  Bishop shook his head, admiring how skillfully his wife had just framed the debate. But she was taking his remarks out of context, and he couldn’t let it go. “By my way of thinking, people would naturally protect the doctor from the gunslinger out of common sense. I don’t see why we need government rules and regulations to enforce core values on society. It leads to a slippery slope… one we just traveled, and I don’t know about you, but I didn’t like the journey.”

  Terri stopped walking, turning to face her husband, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes, “And that is why I love you so much, my husband. If everyone was like you, then governance could be a much less intrusive exercise. If there were nothing but clear-thinking, well-intended people on the planet, we probably wouldn’t need authority or elections. But that’s not the case, and you know it.”

  She then softened, balancing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I’m sorry you’re feeling like a fish out of water. All of us are going to have to make painful adjustments as the recovery moves forward. We really have no choice, though. There’s no stopping it.”

  “I suppose. As usual, you’re right. I’ll do my best to stop being an old hermit-grouch.”

  They continued their stroll, eventually ending at the Manor’s pool.

  Again, Bishop felt the pangs of disappointment. There were a dozen people splashing and lounging around the crystal clear oasis. The chorus of laughter and low conversations made it obvious that any submerged romantic encounter was out of the question. So was any public display of Terri’s new swimwear.

  “See what I mean?” Bishop protested. “This recovery thing is entirely overrated. We had to sit at the bar in Pete’s because there were no empty tables. I couldn’t even find a parking spot on the street. We couldn’t get a king-size bed. I had to use money. And now the pool is crowded. Is there any way we can initiate another collapse?”

  Terri smiled and then lowered her voice to a sultry tone. “How about I go shoo away the babysitter and change into my new PJs? I’m sure I can take your mind far, far away from the troubles of this nasty, old world.”

  “Can I have my five bucks back?”

  The comment drew a playful swat, and then she was strutting toward their room with an exaggerated swagger of her hips. Casting a coy glance over her shoulder, she said, “Only if you’re good. Really good.”

  Chapter 7

  With Hunter on his arm, Bishop headed to the market early, the Texan in a much better mental place.

  Determined to have a good day, he left the carbine in the hotel room, opting to tuck a .45 caliber pistol inside his belt. He even left his shirt out to cover the iron’s beefy grip.

  One on one time with Hunter was always a joy. That… and the opportunity to let Terri sleep in had made shopping for the windmill’s replacement bolt all the more palatable. But the highlight of the morning was having his five dollars back.

  By noon, they were checked-out and driving back to the ranch. Terri had found a second-hand potty training book, spending most of the trip reading the work to Hunter in the backseat.

  “He’s just now wanting to walk, isn’t it a bit early for potty training?”

  “Yes, but they aren’t printing books anymore, so I wanted to pick it up while I could,” she replied. “Besides that acorn might not fall from your tree, dear. He might be the sort of lad who benefits from hearing something more than once,” Terri teased.

  Bishop was just about to turn into the ranch’s long lane when he abruptly stopped the truck. “What the hell?” he groaned.

  Terri followed his gaze to a small cloud of dust rising in the distance. Whatever it was, it was on their property. “Is someone at the camper?” she asked.

  “Sure looks like a car is driving on our lane. Were you expecting company?” he asked, reaching for the carbine.

  “No. I have no idea who it could be.”

  Recalling their recent experience with having a pickup shot out from under them, Terri reacted immediately. Unstrapping Hunter, she was out of the cab and slinging her rifle just a few seconds slower than Bishop.

  “At least we won’t have to walk very far if they shoot up the truck,” Bishop said, his eyes never leaving the approaching billow of dust. “But our insurance is going to skyrocket if we have another claim,” he added sarcastically.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Terri actually smiled. “I’m glad to hear you’re back with that delightful cornball sense of humor, my love. I was worried there for a while.”

  A dark colored SUV soon came into view, the vehicle slowly meandering along the ranch’s crooked, unpaved lane. “At worst, t
here’s only one carload of them,” Bishop commented. “Hardly seems like a fair fight.”

  “Why are you assuming there’s going to be a gunfight?” Terri asked. “That seems a bit pessimistic.”

  “Why did you grab your rifle, Little Miss Optimist?”

  “Good point.”

  “It’s probably just Avon calling, or some guy trying to sell us a satellite dish,” Bishop commented, glancing at their surroundings in case a retreat became necessary.

  “If it’s a salesman, I want to do the shooting,” Terri replied with a smirk.

  Bishop was scanning the approaching vehicle through his optic when it suddenly stopped 200 meters away. He exhaled with relief when Nick exited the driver’s door and waved.

  “Shit,” Bishop sighed. “So much for a running gun battle with rustlers or looters. It’s only Nick.”

  “And Diana,” Terri added, nodding as the Alliance’s leader climbed out of the passenger side. “You almost shot our friends who apparently dropped in for a spot of tea.”

  A short time later, everyone was gathered in the camper’s main saloon. “So you guys have been off partying in Meraton?” Nick teased. “So much for all of this, ‘I can’t leave the ranch, there’s too much work to be done,’ bellyaching I’ve been hearing.”

  “So who’s running the show in Alpha since your fiancé is out here in the middle of nowhere?” Bishop countered with a grin.

  Terri sensed right away it wasn’t a social call, Diana’s attempt to mask her stress just a little too transparent. Interrupting the boy’s playful banter, she asked, “What’s wrong, girlfriend?”

  Diana produced a folder almost an inch thick. “We’ve got a problem,” came the worried response. “While I’ve tried to respect your retirement and leave Bishop and you alone to start anew, we became aware of a situation yesterday that threatens everything we’ve worked for. I hate to do it, but I need advice… from both of you.”

  After exchanging troubled glances with her husband, Terri responded, “What’s going on, Diana? You know Bishop and I would do anything for Nick and you… and the Alliance as well.”